Whenever I stay somewhere for long enough it feels like I’ve always been there, like everything that happened before was some kind of dream I was having, recalled in fits and starts, flashes of people, lights, and sounds. Maybe I have been here forever. Maybe every passing moment is an eternity, or all moments in time exist simultaneously so that we are always in the places we have been and will be during our short, infinite lives.
All rivers must eventually empty into the sea, but the river remains. Every curve, bend, dip, narrowing and widening of the river exists simultaneously. Can we ever see it in its entirety? Can we ever feel it all at once? Can we ever know the whole of that vast river, of ourselves? Is this the impossible truth that I have felt lurking at the edges of my consciousness waiting to be comprehended? That every moment in time is the same moment?
I have been here before, and I will always be here, a brief flash of light in the darkness.
Metaphors and similes buried within allegories. Have my thoughts and emotions become this obscure even to myself?
I am confused. I am in pain. I am afraid. I am tired of goodbyes and tired of feeling restless. I wish I could tolerate these feelings of uncertainty better.
How can I practice acceptance when I don’t even know what it is I’m accepting? I don’t even know what my choices are. I feel only a sense of searching, moving, and seeking. I wish I knew what the “right” thing was. Instead, I feel only the absence of it, like a definition through opposition, and its source remains mysterious to me, or I have chosen to ignore it.
Maybe this is just the way I am, and that is what I am trying to accept. He Who Seeks and Never Finds.
My heart feels so broken. Maybe it has always been broken, or it’s been broken for so long that I can’t remember what it felt like to be whole. Maybe my heart broke decades ago in another life and it hurt so badly that I turned it to stone to keep it from breaking again, from shattering into a thousand pieces. I wonder if what I am seeking is to mend that broken heart. I wonder if it can’t be fixed. I wonder whether or not it needs to be.
I think that maybe in order to use your heart in the way it was meant to be used you have to break it first. To see what is inside. To open it and let in the world and let yourself out into it. Who could ever get past that hard shell of an unbroken heart, a heart of stone? How could anyone see the light radiating from it and be drawn forth by their love and curiosity?
A heart of stone cannot beat. It cannot change, flex, or adapt. It cannot open. Stone resists, water flows, and constant dripping wears away the stone. The stone will always break.
Sometimes I feel myself flowing easily, like a stream, like frothing rapids shaped by stones, like an endless ocean. Sometimes I feel as if I have become so much like the water that my heart of stone always longed to be.
Sometimes I wonder if I don’t already have everything I need. The river flows. My heart is free, and broken, and everyone whose heart is broken is also free. Free to love. Free to grieve. Free to break, and into those cracks and holes flows an unbelievable amount of love, warmth, and kindness.
So flow. Flow like a river. Pour like rain.